


Of Things Buried

by jadztone



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, First Kiss, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Reichenbach, Red Pants Monday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 03:50:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20500415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadztone/pseuds/jadztone
Summary: After Sherlock's death, John discovers a secret that he'd been keeping.  Unable to cope with missed chances on top of his grief, John buries the memory.  The case of the Bloody Guardsman brings it back to the surface.  Now that Sherlock is alive, does this mean a second chance?  Or is it still too late?  John is engaged, after all.





	Of Things Buried

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt for this Red Pants Monday is "dog tags"

In the weeks following Sherlock’s inexplicable suicide, John found it much harder to cope than he would have expected. He hadn’t realized that his feelings ran that deeply. The discovery of the secret box made it much, much worse. 

John had been sitting in his chair, numbly sipping tea, when he heard a shocked, “Oh!” coming from Sherlock’s bedroom. Mrs. Hudson had been in there looking for some documents that she needed, having been unable to locate them in the more typical areas around Sherlock’s desk. John had felt a bit guilty for letting her conduct the search on her own, but going through Sherlock’s things felt like more than he could handle.

Mrs. Hudson bustled into the sitting room, wringing her hands. “John, I know you’re hurting right now, but I think it’s asking too much to make me deal with what I just found. A woman my age!”

John scowled. “Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft said not to dispose of anything, that he would take care of it.”

She shook her head. “I _really_ don’t think Sherlock would want his brother to see what was in that box. _Please_, John. I’m sure you don’t want to see those things either, but…” She shrugged as if to say, who else was there.

John felt dread creep over him. Was it drug paraphernalia? “I’ll take care of it, Mrs. Hudson.” 

She patted him on the shoulder as she headed towards the door. “Thank you, John. You know, as surprised as I was by what I found…it’s nice to realize that he wasn’t as high above us mortals as he pretended.” She gave an odd sort of giggle as she closed the door behind her. Ooo_kay_. So not drugs? 

Curiosity propelled him out of his chair and into Sherlock’s room. Once inside, he took a moment to breathe deeply, in and out. This had been Sherlock’s personal space, the part of him that wasn’t taken over by cases or experiments. John had once imagined that it would be just as stacked full of books and petri dishes as the rest of the flat. But it was actually quite tidy. 

The box in question was on the floor next to the bed. Likely Mrs. Hudson had pulled it out from underneath. John set it on the bed and opened the flap. The first thing he saw was…bloody hell. It was a prostate stimulator. And right next to it was a mostly empty bottle of lube. John huffed out a shaky laugh. Her reaction made sense, now. John closed the flap again, but not before glimpsing an assortment of butt plugs in various sizes. _Christ_.

So much for Sherlock’s lofty lectures about transport. Not that John was that surprised to find out Sherlock was a sensualist. He might have eschewed eating and sleeping, but he did like the finer things. All those posh bath products. The sheets with high thread count. Those bloody suits of his. Even his sex toys were top of the line. John wasn’t embarrassed to admit he recognized the brand of the stimulator. 

John had to quell the visual that popped into his head of what Sherlock would look like using it. His friend was _dead_, for god’s sake. John looked down at the box. He supposed the best thing was to just chuck the box into one of the bins out back. He didn’t know why Mrs. Hudson hadn’t just done it herself. Sherlock’s voice whispered in his head, ‘perhaps she was worried that jostling the box would set something off and it would start vibrating.’ John collapsed into giggles at the thought.

John reached for the box, and hesitated. He allowed himself one last glimpse inside of it, and frowned when he saw something unusual at the bottom. Red cotton and scraps of metal. John reached into the box and pushed aside various objects that he was absolutely not going to think about had been _inside_ Sherlock, and pulled out the two items that had caught his attention.

He stared down at them, knowing what they were immediately. But the fact that they had been inside Sherlock’s room in a box full of sex toys was so incongruous that he spent long minutes trying to figure out if in his grief he’d started hallucinating. One of the objects was a pair of red pants which looked remarkably like the ones he owned, but it couldn’t possibly be them because why would Sherlock have his pants? It had to be a coincidence. For one thing, these clearly had been used because they bore the signs of being washed regularly. John had never worn the pants he bought.

It was an embarrassing memory. Back when he was dating the one with the spots (and bloody hell he couldn’t even remember her name at the moment) she had dragged him into a sex shop with the idea of spicing things up in the bedroom. She’d fallen immediately in love with display of brightly colored men’s underwear that lined one wall. She said that it was a nice change of pace from walls full of lingerie, and it was about time that men started wearing sexy knickers for their women. 

He refrained from pointing out that they were in a section of the shop that catered to gay couples. He was trying very hard not to look at any of the items on the shelves, as he was already having a hard enough time avoiding pervy thoughts about his madman flatmate without the items on display giving him ideas to work with. To shut her up and get out of the shop, John had agreed to a pair of red pants. Once he got home, he shoved them in the far corner of his underwear drawer and completely forgot about them. 

Staring at the pair he’d just found, John wondered what he would find if he were to go upstairs right now and look for them. If they were gone, that would mean this was the same pair. It would mean Sherlock had been snooping (no surprise there), had found them, and taken them for his own use. John shivered as several possibilities flitted through his mind. Clearly they had been used often, as the red was a bit faded. 

The metal bits turned out to be a pair of dog tags. There was no plausible deniability in this instance, they had his name stamped on them. Sherlock had definitely gone through his box of Army stuff and had taken them. 

If it had just been one thing or the other, John might have been able to reach a different conclusion. If it had been just the pants, perhaps Sherlock liked the look of them and deduced that John would never wear them. If it had been just the dog tags, maybe Sherlock had a military kink and it didn’t matter that they were John’s, they were just conveniently at hand.

But the two things together could only mean one thing: Sherlock thought of John when he was getting himself off. And Christ, if that wasn’t the absolute worst thing he could find out. Because what if this meant he could have been with Sherlock in a more intimate way, but now it was too late?

John had been attracted to Sherlock from the start, had made his interest known at Angelo’s that first night. But Sherlock rejected him, and that was that as far as John was concerned. It hadn’t occurred to him that maybe Sherlock would change his mind. Maybe he was demisexual, and after being in close proximity for so many months, he’d developed an attraction that wasn’t there at the start. _Or_, John fiercely told himself, maybe he’d always been attracted to John, but his dedication to his work meant that he preferred to take care if it alone. There was no guarantee that if John propositioned him again more recently, he would have gotten a different answer. 

John put his dog tags in his pocket and returned the pants to the box, folding the flaps down. Taking the box downstairs to the bins, he squashed down the tiny voice in his head that wondered whether Sherlock would have committed suicide if they’d been romantically involved. 

*

More than two years later, John had long forgotten about his discovery…until he posted his blog entry “The Bloody Guardsman.” He was sitting at his laptop, checking the new comments, and one lady had commented “Who doesn't like a man in uniform?” 

Thinking about Sherlock’s initial assessment of Bainbridge’s stalker, John remembered that his exact words had been, “Uniform fetishist.” Fetishist. Military kink. _Dog tags_. John sucked in a breath. He’d done such a good job burying that painful memory, that when Sherlock came back from the dead he hadn’t thought about it at all. Of course, part of that was due to the fact that he’d been so angry at Sherlock for what he did, and the fact that he just got engaged. 

But now, here it was again. Sherlock’s attraction for John, and how much it had hurt John to find out. The memory of that day returned with full clarity. Chucking the box in the bin. Shoving his dog tags back into his box of Army things. Lying on his bed, crying, and having the most pathetic wank of his life as he grieved over what might have been. 

What might have been…bloody hell. He’d confessed to Sherlock that he stood at his grave wishing for one more miracle. What he hadn’t acknowledged, to Sherlock _or_ himself, was what he’d imagined he would do if that miracle were to happen. A second chance to tell Sherlock how he felt. Find out once and for all whether Sherlock was just scratching an itch or if he had wanted more from John. 

But he didn’t really have that second chance now, did he? Because of all the nights Sherlock could have come back, it had been the night that John proposed to someone else. Mary, who chose to interpret him as saying she was the best thing to happen to him, when really he’d meant _since Sherlock_. Mary, who he loved, but could never come close to how he felt about Sherlock. 

He’d always known, since the moment he decided to propose to her, that it wasn’t because being married to her was what he wanted most in the world. It was because he felt grateful to her for the normalcy she provided that he’d really needed at the time. Marrying her was a way of guaranteeing that it wouldn’t go away, like Sherlock had. Once Sherlock came back, he’d held onto that normalcy even more, as a way of coping with the feeling of betrayal eating away at him. 

But seven months on, the hurt has started to fade and he was once again experiencing the wonderful energy and fulfillment that spending time with Sherlock gave him. The prospect of a life of “normalcy” was becoming more and more unpalatable. But John hasn’t known what to do with these intrusive thoughts, especially since Mary and Sherlock were going full speed ahead making such elaborate plans for the commencement of the “normal” part of his life. Sherlock, who once gleefully sabotaged all his romantic relationships, was now determined to offer him up on a silver platter.

Now, in light of the memory about the red pants and dog tags, John wondered if this was confirmation that Sherlock was never seriously interested in a romantic relationship. Or if he _had_ wanted it, but was giving up. Maybe Mary was wrong about Sherlock being scared. Maybe he was grieving what might have been by burying his feelings in serviettes and place settings.

John pushed away from his laptop and stood up. He felt a little dizzy, as if he were Sherlock coming out of a long trip into his mind palace. _Sherlock_. What the hell was he going to do? John looked around the little suburban home he shared with Mary. She was out with her friend Janine. His normal fiancé out doing normal things with her normal friends while he sat in their normal home quietly going out of his mind with longing to go back to Baker street. Back to Sherlock. 

But what would he do if he told Sherlock his feelings, and Sherlock was still “married to his work,” perfectly content with occasional wanking to lurid thoughts of his former flatmate…if he still even did that. Maybe he had some experiences while he was away, another soldier that replaced John in the kinkier part of his mind palace. 

If he were rejected again, like he had been so long ago at Angelo’s, John didn’t think he could shrug it off this time. There was so much more at stake, not the least of which was that he wouldn’t feel right going ahead with the wedding when it would be clear at that point that Mary was a consolation prize. Mary didn’t deserve that. He could only marry her in good faith if he chose _not_ to open this pandora’s box. 

John tried to think back on the past months, whether Sherlock gave any clue as to whether he still had any attraction for him. He paced back and forth, feeling more and more agitated, until finally something came to mind. “I prefer my doctors clean-shaven.” John remembered the thrill it had given him, and how he’d quickly squashed it. It wasn’t much, but John was quickly realizing that it was enough. 

In fact, the more John thought about it, the more he realized pandora’s box was already open. Whether or not he ever confronted Sherlock, the memory of those bloody dog tags and the red pants has uncovered all the feelings he’s been suppressing the past 7 months…the growing discontent in his future with Mary. She was already second choice. 

If John was at all an honourable man, he would have to break off the engagement. John contemplated the idea for a moment, taking in how it made him feel. Relief is what it felt like. He looked around again. This wasn’t where he belonged. 

But did he belong at Baker street. The prospect of returning there made his heart quicken. But once again he thought about the consequences if Sherlock rejected him. Would he really be able to live there? The relief he felt moments ago now evaporated. Fuck! He’d just torpedoed one relationship with his messy feelings, and now he had the potential of blowing up the one that mattered the most. 

John pictured himself in another bedsit like the one he’d occupied before Sherlock, and the one he’d been in when he met Mary. He’d be back to another one. A physical reminder of his life going to shit. John shook his head. No, he couldn’t think that way. 

Ella once told him not to see such things as a reminder of failure, but a reminder of survival. He’d been shot and survived. He lost his best friend and survived. He could survive this. And for this reason, Ella had also told him, he should stop focusing on what would happen if it all goes wrong. Because what will happen is that he will survive. Instead, focus on what will happen if it goes right. Use that as motivation to move past the fear and go for what he wants. And what he wants is Sherlock.

John stopped pacing. He needed to take action. Now. Mary wouldn’t be back for hours, he couldn’t wait that long. He went upstairs and packed an overnight bag. He retrieved his dog tags from the Army box and put them in his pocket. 

*

John was nervous as hell in the cab to Baker Street. He hoped that Sherlock was home. He hadn’t texted him because he wasn’t sure what excuse he would come up with if Sherlock asked him why he wanted to come over. It felt better to just spring it on him. 

To his relief, he could see the light on through the window. He let himself in with the key that Sherlock insisted he have, and went upstairs. He put his overnight bag on the landing out of sight, because he certainly didn’t know how to answer _that_ question. A perverse part of him wondered if he was doing it this way because the less information Sherlock had, the less likely he was to deduce everything before John even got a word in edgewise. 

Indeed, the door flung open before he had a chance to knock. Sherlock’s expression was bemused. “John?”

John stepped into the flat. “Hello, Sherlock.” He cleared his throat. Well this was off to a fine start. He looked over at where Sherlock was standing, taking in his pajamas, dressing gown, and disheveled hair. Likely he’d been at home all day sulking over the failure to solve their case yesterday. 

As if reading his mind, Sherlock’s expression turned mulish. “Come to gloat some more over the case? The Bloody Guardsman,” he said it with a sneer.

John squared his shoulders. This was just as good a place as any to start. “This isn’t about the case, per se, but something you said during it. When it first came up, your theory was that it was a uniform fetishist.”

Sherlock wrinkled his brow. “Uniform fetishist. Uniform…uniform…there’s something significant about that…Bainbridge’s uniform…what is it…?”

John waved his hand, he couldn’t let Sherlock trip into his mind palace right now. “No, no. Think about that later. I’m not talking about the uniform, I’m talking about the fetish part. A military kink. Your words reminded me of something I hadn’t thought about in over 2 years.”

John pulled the dog tags out of his pocket and held them up. Sherlock stared at them in dismay. “I…I’d wondered what became of the box.”

“Mrs. Hudson discovered it shortly after your…death. She asked me to dispose of it so your brother wouldn’t see it. Along with various other…items, I found my red pants…and these. Obviously I kept the tags, but I threw the rest out. Sorry. It looked like an expensive collection, but I thought you were dead.”

Sherlock swallowed. “It’s fine, I’ve replaced everything.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Even the pants?”

Sherlock colored. Lifting his chin, he said in a cool tone, “As it turns out, the store had the exact same kind in stock. But it really wasn’t the same, was it? I didn’t get them.”

John stepped forward until he was in Sherlock’s personal space. “Because they wouldn’t have been mine, right? Tell me something, Sherlock. How exactly did you use the red pants and the tags? Did you wear them, or did you wank over them?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “I…I...d-don’t think this is appropriate. For god’s sake, John, I’m helping to plan your wedding.”

John shook his head. “There isn’t going to be a wedding. I’m ending it.” Sherlock’s jaw dropped open and John stepped closer. “I’ll be happy to explain later, but right now I really, really need to know. Did you have these around your neck when you brought yourself to orgasm, or did you have them laid out on the bed…imagining that I was wearing them?” John pressed the tags against Sherlock’s chest and he let out a gasp, his pupils dilating.

“I-I wore the tags. But I also imagined you had them on and I could feel them against my chest because…” he faltered.

“Because in your mind I was on top of you.” John’s own breathing was becoming ragged.

Sherlock nodded jerkily. “I had the pants laid out next to me, so that when I came it would go all over the pants. It made the orgasm more intense.”

John breathed out a gust of air. “_Fantastic_. Now here’s the important part, Sherlock. A long time ago you told me you were married to your work. Was this just…an affair? A way to get yourself off without the messiness of relationships? Or did things change after that night at Angelo’s? Did you find that you wanted me after all, but didn’t think it was possible because I’m…”

“Not gay.” Sherlock ground the words out. “You’re not gay, as you’ve made so clear to all and sundry for years now. So why are you tormenting me with this? I thought we were past your desire to punish me for faking my death.”

“Sherlock…no, that’s not it at all.” John reached out to grip his shoulders. “I’m asking because I need to know if what I’m hoping for is at all a possibility. You _know_ I was hitting on you that first night. But when you told me to back off, I backed off. When people assumed things about us, it was much easier to just say I wasn’t gay. It was the best way to shut them up. And it was true, because I am attracted to women. I just happen to be attracted to men as well.” John took a deep breath. “The fact that I backed off flirting with you, and the fact that I used the most expedient method of denying my feelings to the world at large didn’t mean that those feelings went away. I just buried them, Sherlock. Out of respect for our friendship. You were the most important person in the world to me and I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. After you died, when I saw what you had in that box…God, it was like a punch in the gut. I didn’t know what to think about what this meant. Was it just convenient for you to imagine me in those moments or was there more to it? And I lost my chance to find out.”

Sherlock stared down at him. “And when I came back, you’d long since buried the memory of that discovery. Did your best to delete it, but not entirely successful.”

“Well, I don’t have your big brain.”

Sherlock’s expression crumpled slightly. “I wasn’t able to successfully delete you while I was away. I tried, so that my mind could be more focused. It didn’t work. I missed you too much. Does that answer your question, John?”

John shook his head. “I know that you care about me, Sherlock. And I know that you’re attracted to me. But does that even matter if you’re still married to your work? If I were to move back here, would we _just_ be sharing a flat again? Or this time would we share a bedroom?”

Sherlock’s lips pressed together, and his breath hitched. “I want to share everything with you, John. My work. My bed. My heart. Though it’s hardly sharing when it’s already fully yours.”

John huffed out a sigh of relief. “Sherlock..” He circled his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders and buried his face in his neck. Sherlock’s arms went around his back, drawing him even closer. “I love you so much, Sherlock.”

He felt Sherlock tremble. “John…John, is this really happening?”

“I can hardly believe it myself, but it is.”

“Only it’s just…you and Mary. It seemed like…she was the one for you. Just yesterday you were going on and on about how she turned your life around.”

John grimaced. “Is that why you took off on me?” He pulled back from the hug and looked into Sherlock’s eyes. “Yeah she did turn my life around. And I badly wanted to be happy in this new life. But I wasn’t, Sherlock. And it all came crashing down on me tonight. I needed to come here straight away, and I’m so glad I did. This feels so right. This is what makes me happy. I know it seems sudden to you, but this has been building ever since you got back. I was in denial, just like before. Except this time I dragged someone else into it.”

“So you’re going to break it off with Mary?” Sherlock’s tone was tentative.

John nodded. “And move back in here, if you’ll have me.”

Sherlock gave him a small smile. “Into my bedroom this time?”

John winced. “I think for tonight I should go upstairs. Doesn’t feel right until I talk with Mary. Which I’ll do tomorrow.”

Sherlock huffed. “You’re always so honourable, John. What if I promise we don’t do anything? Just…cuddle.”

John gave him a sceptical look and Sherlock huffed even louder. “Fine. Can I at least…kiss you?”

John took a deep breath. He should say no, but the longing in Sherlock’s eyes broke him. He nodded, and then very quickly found himself being crowded against the door and Sherlock’s lips on his. Softly at first, feather light. Then he was pressing more firmly, both their lips and their bodies. Except for his hands, which were flat against the door on either side of John’s head. “If I touch you, I won’t be able to stop touching you. I don’t know what I was thinking with the idea of sharing a bed.”

John let out a giggle, and Sherlock took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, their tongues sliding together. God, even without Sherlock touching him this could get out of hand quickly. As if reading his thoughts, Sherlock reluctantly broke the kiss. They spent a few moments getting their breath back. In a resigned tone, Sherlock said, “I um…I think I better go to bed early. Even just looking at you as we sit across from each other will be too much. Goodnight, John. Sleep well.” 

He stepped away from John, startling him when he deftly swiped the dog tags out of his nerveless fingers. With a smirk he went down the hall to his bedroom and closed the door.

**Author's Note:**

> This story got away with me and now I am forced to cut it off just as it was getting good. I have 5 minutes left of Monday to post this! Maybe I'll do a sequel next week.


End file.
